We had excellent raw oysters and raw clams on the shell, crabs stewed
with a wine sauce that was delicious, fish, boiled chicken, and baked
pig. I had not tasted more appetizing food. It was all cooked in the
native fashion on hot stones above or under ground. We saw the pig's
disinterment. On the brink of the stream which flowed past the bower
the oven had been made. The cooks, Moorea men, removed a layer of
earth that had been laid on cocoa-palm leaves. This was the cover
of the oven. Immediately below the leaves were yams and feis and
under them a layer of banana leaves. The pig came next. It had been
cut into pieces as big as mutton-chops and had cooked two and a half
hours. It was on stones, coral, under which the fire of wood had been
thoroughly ignited, the stones heated, and then the different layers
placed above. The pig was tender, succulent, and the yams and feis
finely flavored.

The two native men, in pareus, and with crowns of scarlet hibiscus,
waited on us, while the son of Llewellyn uncorked the bottles. As
usual, the beverages were lavishly dispensed, beginning with Scotch
whisky as an appetizer, and following with claret, sauterne, vintage
Burgundy, and a champagne that would have pleased Paris. These more
expensive beverages were for us hosts only.

We were an odd company: Llewellyn, a Welsh-Tahitian; Landers,
a British New-Zealander; McHenry, Scotch-American; Polonsky,
Polish-French; Schlyter, the Swedish tailor; David, an American
vanilla-grower; "Lying Bill," English; and I, American. There was
little talk at breakfast. They were trenchermen beyond compare, and
the dishes were emptied as fast as filled. These men have no gifts
of conversation in groups. Though we had only one half-white of the
party, Llewellyn, he to a large degree set the pace of words and